


May I Have This Dance

by Mimsys



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Ball, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Fluff, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-08 00:11:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5475749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mimsys/pseuds/Mimsys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All of the guests are spirits, but the pale teen in blue seems intangible and ethereal even compared to the other's; he is alluring, dancing on the edge of Pitch's vision, and the Nightmare King hates the knowing smirk on his host's face.</p>
            </blockquote>





	May I Have This Dance

Jack let out a tinkling laugh, the sound as light as delicate snowflakes twirling from the dark sky and settling down on the yards in blankets, waiting to be trampled with the sunrise when children spilled from open doors in too many layers. Everything about him is soft and light: lips tugged into a fond smile by frequent laughter, pale clothing that floated around him like gossamer, the look in his eyes when he glanced around the room. He was so good, so innocent, so naive.

Pitch wanted him. Craved him like he craved screams heady with fear, like he craved the Guardians at his feet, like he craved a full freedom and not the mockery of it he had, like he craved his daughter’s approval again.

North must know, that sneaky bastard, because he kept trailing over to Pitch with an inviting laugh and the offer of an introduction. Despite the strict instructions to come in costume, most of the spirits there were too distinctive to be mistakable for anyone else. Toothiana’s dyed black feathers, for example, did nothing to detract from her baby teeth fluttering curiously around her and ruining the dark image of the Raven she was attempting to maintain. And North - well, someone should have told him that his booming voice was clue enough even if his stature and tattoos weren’t. Pitch knew everyone there; at the very least, he could identify them based on folklore and gossip. But this lithe little sprite evaded his recollection.

He was dressed in layers of pale blue and a silvery white that hung around him in a loose but sheer tunic, slit in the front so that he could display the blue leggings clinging to his frame, decorated with delicate tendrils of frost. It looks genuine, but Pitch isn’t sure who would find an icy addition comfortable. Besides that, the man doesn’t seem to be wearing much of a costume at all; his pale face was half covered by a sharp, angular blue mask that sparkled with rime, but his elaborate outfit didn’t seem to be anything but formal.

“Look,” Pitch growled lowly the next time North passed by him with a falsely innocent smile on his ruddy face. “Just tell me who he is. What’s his costume supposed to be?”

“Jack?” The man asked in a laugh, drawing the passing attention of the spirit in question. “He dresses up as some of his depictions, ya?”

Jack? Such a common name for such an ethereal spirit, light as a snowflake and twirling through the crowds with carefree laughter on his pale lips. Pitch wondered if a nipping kiss would bring color to them, would flush them with life, and immediately chided himself for doing so. The only spirits Pitch knew who were associated with the snow were Father Winter, Windigoes, and…

“Jack Frost?” He asked incredulously as the spirit moved over to them, curious to see who North was chatting with. “But he’s just a fairy tale, even by our standards.” He saw the approaching spirit too late, saw him stiffen in shock and pain as he overheard the words that had fallen so carelessly from Pitch’s lips. “No, Jack-” But he was already gone, running back into the crowd, which parted easily for him and closed ranks back around him, swallowing him up.

“I’d say you owe him an apology.” North noted, words mild enough even though there was a steely tone to his voice. “Don’t you?” And Pitch knew that even if he wasn’t already trying to scan the mass of masked spirits for the frost sprite, North would demand an apology.

“I’ll find him.” It comes out almost like a threat - his words usually do - but North’s expression eases and Pitch knows, damn it, that North suspects that his stomach is already tight with guilt. “I’ll apologize.”

He leaves the Russian behind, weaving through the dancers and trying to block out the faint unease tainting the air as he comes too close; when he finds Jack, the spirit is out on an otherwise empty balcony, one of the few guests that doesn’t flinch at the bitter cold. Jack turns when Pitch lets the door close behind him; on the uncovered lower half of his face, tears froze in crystalline patterns along his pale cheeks. “North said I belonged here.” He choked out, pale hands coming up to run through and tug at his hair, knocking his mask slightly askew, “Said no one would know who I was, said they wouldn’t care anyways. He said everyone would see me, and they did, but he didn’t say they still wouldn’t _believe_.”

“I believe.” Pitch protested softly, trying to calm the young spirit before his anger spiked, “I misspoke, Jack, and I am truly sorry, but I believe. You have every right to enjoy yourself in there, and I’ll leave the party if that’s what it takes for you to do so.”

The next time Jack tugged at his hair, he managed to knock into the mask yet again, and it fell; when it hit the ground, it shattered with a crack. The delicate piece had been ice, and Pitch felt a pang of regret for the beautiful mask’s death. He moved his eyes back up to Jack’s wild gaze, feeling worse as he took in the red rimmed eyes and the lips red from being worried between white teeth. “You don’t have to leave.” Jack seems a bit calmer, but there’s a biting, cold tone to his voice that didn’t belong on lips that had been stretched into a smile before Pitch had opened his mouth. Pitch is well aware that it is permission to stay but not forgiveness for his comment. “North said tonight’s for everyone, for all the spirits that don’t usually get along. A truce where people can pretend they’re not dancing with their enemies because of the masks covering their faces. Wouldn’t want to be the one to ruin that.”

“Well then,” Pitch steps forward and extends his hand, hating that Jack immediately tensed. “May I have this dance?”


End file.
